


Stealing a Southerner

by riverlandsred



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:26:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlandsred/pseuds/riverlandsred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written ages ago for a comment fic meme. In this AU, Sansa is a wildling traveling South to escape the White Walkers. On her way, she makes a stop at Winterfell, where the Starks are hosting the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his court. Disappointed with the kneelers she's already seen, she is surprised to find herself captivated by one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stealing a Southerner

**Author's Note:**

> This has been rotting away in my Google Docs account for too long. I've always had a soft spot for this fic, so I thought I'd resurrect it here on AO3.

Sansa had never been this far south before. After a grueling climb over the wall and a long, tiresome trek over the so-called “North” lands, she had finally reached the kneelers’ stronghold. She knew of the Starks, of course. All the Free Folk were told to watch for Benjen Stark, a crow ranger, but Sansa had never seen a crow or any southerners at all. Since she fled the Land Beyond the Wall, however, she’d seen plenty. Puny things. Weak. Kneelers, utterly. She flitted around them all, quick as a bird, and watched as her friend Jeyne and Jeyne’s man Theon slit throats and stole food. Sansa only drove a dagger in one man’s belly when he threatened her friend, but for the most part, these kneelers were dispatched quickly. Her claws were never needed. So she prowled around instead, like the Red Wolf her people had named her.

 

As they approached the large castle, Sansa momentarily stood in awe. Even with only the moon to light the scene, Winterfell loomed large and powerful ahead of her. Theon nudged her shoulder to keep moving, but she couldn’t help but stare. She never knew men could make such things from stone. This place must be impenetrable. Both Sansa and Jeyne tried to persuade Theon that infiltrating such a large keep, full of men at arms, was not the best of ideas. They could continue south, get food elsewhere.

 

“You women don’t understand the way these southerners work, do you?” He replied after a prolonged rant about the potential threat of Winterfell. “All the smallfolk around this keep depend upon it for shelter and food. Their holds are immense. If we stop here for provisions, we won’t have to stop again for a while. Take as much as we need and keep going as far south as south goes.”

 

“Do you really think we wouldn’t be found out, Theon?” Jeyne asked. “Look at it! That place was built to keep people out!”

 

“To keep _armies_ out, perhaps,” he said. “But three Free Folk?” Theon waited for the idea to sink in. “In such a large keep, they’d never even know we were there.” He grinned and nudged both women toward Winterfell.

 

Theon, Jeyne, and Sansa crawled in through a small opening at the base of an anterior wall. When they emerged at the other end, daggers drawn, the main courtyard was hushed. And so far, it appeared that Theon was right. Not only were they going unnoticed, but it seemed as if there was no one around to even notice them in the first place.

 

As Sansa observed their surroundings, there were small buildings jutting out from one larger one. The larger beamed bright in the night. She could distinguish the shadows of those within, and she could also hear the muffled sounds of revelry. Outside, hanging from the top of buildings and strewn across the grounds below, she noticed the Stark banner with a direwolf emblazoned upon it, but there were other banners waving about as well. Yellow banners with a stag, and red banners with a golden lion. She wondered what those meant and who they belonged to, but quickly forgot about the banners when she noticed Theon and Jeyne were already halfway across the yard, creeping slowly toward the buildings on the other side.

 

With her dagger still in hand, she began moving toward her friends, but then the large building’s doors opened. Bright candlelight filled the courtyard, the raucous noises from within flowed out into the night, and a man walked out. Before he shut the door again, Sansa quickly lunged behind an overturned crate near the building’s wall and crouched down, hoping that both Theon and Jeyne had done the same.

 

After she caught her breath, Sansa slowly peeked above the crate to see exactly what kind of kneeler she was dealing with. Could she bring him down on her own, without too much of a fight? Or would she have to count on Theon and Jeyne’s help? She looked, and she saw... _oh gods_...

 

This man was not like any other southerner she’d seen so far. He was tall and broadly built, with shoulders as muscled as an aurochs. His torso was long and tapered down to sturdily built legs that carried his bulk solidly as he swayed in the night air. He cocked his head back and took a swig from a wineskin he brought out with him. In the night, Sansa could not make out his facial features, but his long black hair drifted around his shoulders and shook as he cleared his throat in a low growl. Her stomach turned at the noise, and she bit her lip to keep her breathing under control.

 

Although Sansa admired his legs only moments before, they seemed to give out from underneath him suddenly, and the man quickly stumbled onto the floor, his back resting against the stone of the large hall behind him. Sansa heard him let out a huff and mutter, “Seven hells...so bloody drunk.”

 

While his size and demeanor made Sansa almost believe him another wildling on the run, like herself, that muttered “Seven hells” confirmed that he was indeed a southerner. Sansa had heard of the gods that many of the Westerosi held to. It sounded ridiculous to her: seven gods housed in a building. She only knew the gods of the First Men, and she prayed to them whenever she could. But still, this man held her interest, so she continued watching him as he sat only a few yards from her.

 

Behind him, she noticed both Theon and Jeyne waving toward her, as if they wanted her to sprint across the courtyard, right in front of the big man. Sansa shook her head and pointed at him. Then, Theon acted as if he too held a bottle and threw his head back as if he were drinking. Sansa understood. Theon believed the man too drunk to do anything, but then Sansa looked at him again, at his large hands gripping the wineskin and at his sword’s hilt jutting out from his side. No, this man wasn’t just another southerner. He could kill her even if he’d drunk five wineskins. Yet, she had no other choice.

 

Sansa picked up her dagger from the ground—she seemed to have dropped it at some point—and readied herself to sprint across the yard as fast as she could, hoping that Theon was right. She took a deep breath and shot out from behind the crate.

 

As she ran, she heard the man chuckle and yell, “Ha! What’s this? A little bird flitting across the yard before me?” He took another swig from his wineskin and continued, “Come, little bird. Stop flying and sing me a song.” Just a few more strides away from Theon and Jeyne, for some reason Sansa halted her steps.

 

To those beyond the Wall, Sansa had always been the Red Wolf, kissed by fire, a woman to be valued. Many men had tried stealing her for her fierceness, which many believed lied in her auburn hair. She pushed them away, baring her teeth and claws. Others had tried a different tactic, a southern one; they tried courting her. The weakness in these men resulted in derision more than desire. She wanted a man who was gentle, yes, but also strong. These nuances were often lost on the men around her though, so she was mostly left to herself. Known as the Red Wolf with hair as hot as fire, but a heart as cold as ice. So when this southerner called her a bird, she stopped and wondered. _How would a man treat a bird?_

 

She turned back toward him. When he noticed her stop, the man laughed again and muttered almost to himself, “Fuck it, dog. Not even these sodding northern whores want you.” He took another gulp of wine and leant his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

 

Sansa couldn’t help herself. She began slowly but determinedly walking toward him. She heard Jeyne urgently whisper her name, but she kept moving toward the big man. When she finally reached him, she slowly knelt beside him. With his eyes closed and his mind clouded with drink, he still hadn’t noticed her. She then bent close to his ear and whispered, “I’d sing for you gladly.”

 

The man was startled then by her proximity and probably by her words, but she dug her nails into his shoulders, feeling their strength and holding him down to the ground. He looked straight at her then, and she at him. From the light filtering through the window above him, she truly saw him now.

 

The best men beyond the Wall were those who ventured out and tried defeating the White Walkers she was currently fleeing. The only way to do so was with fire. Many returned with burns on their arms and hands from too many nights spent clutching their only weapon. Sansa respected these men for keeping their people safe...if only for a few more nights. Their burns were a testament to their strength and their fearlessness. She always knew that only a burnt man could hold her, could keep her, could kiss her own fire.

 

Looking at this southerner now, all those feelings returned but stronger, for his scars were not on his hands or arms but on his face. His ear was gone and his eye rolled around within a sea of marred flesh and twisted skin. Sansa noticed what she believed to be jawbone peeking through his chin and almost wept at the sight.

 

“Kissed by fire,” she whispered, while she lightly ran her fingers down his burnt face.

 

What sounded like a whimper escaped his lips and through a throat choked with emotion, he haltingly whispered, “What—what are you?”

 

She leaned further into him then and whispered back, “A child of the forest.” Sansa turned into his cheek and kissed him. Then, knowing she must, she flitted away from him, running back to her fellow Free Folk and away from this southerner who’d made her _want_ in such a new and terrifying way.

 

Before she rounded the corner, Sansa heard him groan, “No, wait...wait for me, little bird.” She closed her eyes and sprinted after Theon and Jeyne. They must get their provisions from Winterfell, leave, and never look back.


End file.
